Some Laneys Died: A Skipping Sideways Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  * * *

  My seat is E on row 30 between an elderly man at the window and a middle-aged woman with colorful tats on her arms and neck on the aisle. She smiles and stands. I think the design is a Bird of Paradise. “I love your tats.”

  “Thanks!”

  Fortunately there’s still space in the overhead for my carry-on, so I pull out my computer, drop it into the seat, then stow my bag and parka above. I climb into my seat and buckle up.

  I send texts to Dad and Gibbs, telling them I’m on the plane. And receive one from Jagger. Send me pics of you in the snow once you’re in Alaska.

  I text back. Will try during the brief sunlight tomorrow. I’m worried about darkness more than the cold.

  Just smile, and the whole place will light up! The darkness doesn’t stand a chance against you.

  I’m going to enjoy texting Jag, especially after I see our other selves. Would I ever do something as risky as skip my flight and go to a boy’s house for sex? Some part of me does every time because I keep saying no. Except for that night at Marissa’s, which I still don’t understand.

  I scroll through the last several messages on my phone and realize Mom said nothing about calling or texting her.

  After takeoff, I drop down the table and open my laptop. While I waited to board the plane, I decided to write a new story. Not about what could’ve happened three years ago, but about what has happened since. I debated where to start. Friday, when I went to Marissa’s and read the first News Alert? Monday, when I read the newspaper article? Tuesday, when I found the chair in the kitchen?

  Since every event needs context, I started with the Alert and then Dad’s exit. Now after several pages, I plug in my buds and listen to my waterfall loop, drowning out the rest of the world, as I reread what I’ve written. After a few edits, I continue.

  Some time later, an arm reaches across my table. I look up and see a flight attendant taking a credit card from the man next to me. I remove my buds.

  “What would you like?” she asks him.

  “Two bottles of Scotch, a glass of ice, and a can of ginger ale,” answers the man.

  After returning his card and drinks, she looks at me. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’ll take the same.” She raises her brows. “Without the Scotch.”

  “A ginger ale?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After sipping my drink, I glance sideways toward the man who’s looking out the window, his fingers tapping his table. He hasn’t opened his bottles or can. I return to typing and the waterfall.

  While writing I become entranced, watching the action in my mind and the words form on the screen. My fingers pause only occasionally. After an hour and a half, I’m up to 5200 words as I finish the first paragraph of Chapter Three. I open the cookie package on my tray and break off a bite as I reread my last words—“Wishing I could skip over to that other universe and try it out. Or leave it when I want. But I can’t.”

  The man’s hand drops his cookie package next to my computer. I remove my buds.

  “You can have it, if you want. I don’t eat them,” he says with a soft but deep voice.

  “Thank you.” The two nips of Scotch are empty, their necks pushed into the last ice shards in his cup.

  “You write very well. Are you an author?”

  My skin tingles. He’s been reading my screen. For how long? “No.”

  “You should be. I’m sorry for reading your words, but they are fascinating.”

  I feel my face flush as he leans closer to my screen. My fingers reach for the lid briefly then dart back to the keyboard.

  “I’m sorry for embarrassing you. I’ll just look out the window.” He shifts his torso away.

  I try to swallow—my mouth is so dry. “How much did you read?”

  “All that you’ve typed.” He turns farther away. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind.” I push my lid upright and put my hands onto the table.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I drink some ginger ale and open his cookie. I’m starving. I must’ve missed the food cart.

  “Are you Delaney, or is she a character you’ve created?”

  I hesitate, struggling to decide what to say.

  “I’m sorry. That’s an unfair question. I’ve always hated it when family or friends tried to connect characters and events in my books to my life.”

  I turn my head toward him. “You’re an author?”

  “Yes. Science fiction and fantasy. You did an excellent job of explaining the Many Worlds Theory, by the way.”

  “Thanks, but it’s my mother’s explanation.” He smiles, and I realize what I just admitted to. I’m nervous, but I can’t help feeling proud that an author likes my writing.

  “Is your mother here?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “You’re going to see your father in Alaska, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be happy to see him after all those years of absence.” He wipes his nose with a napkin. “I waited too long.”

  “To see your father?”

  “No, my daughter.” He clears his throat. “She died two days ago in Olympia.” His hands circle his empty cup. “I’m heading there now.”

  “I’m so sorry. Was she ill?”

  “Yes.” He glances out the window.

  I realize I shouldn’t have asked. He’s obviously upset. “I’m sorry for prying.”

  “You asked a reasonable question, Laney. Is that your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Lloyd. Lloyd Branson.” His gray eyes are moist and red, half covered with swollen eyelids. “You’re too quick to blame yourself, Laney. So am I.” He inhales deeply and blows the air slowly out his nostrils. “Piper was a drug addict. I’ve blamed myself for that. She died on the street away from her family. I asked her to come home, but she wouldn’t.” He stares forward at the seat back. “I should’ve flown up two months ago when I had an address and phone number, but I didn’t. So I could blame myself for everything about her sad life and death.” He turns toward me. “But that wouldn’t change the fact that she couldn’t change. Being high was the most important thing in her life. More than me or her mother or her child.”

  My chest feels hollow, my heart echoing inside. “She had a child?”

  “Yes. The state took him from her right after birth, and we adopted him. She’d gone through rehab three different times, all unsuccessful. But we thought having a baby would give her a reason to change her life.” His eyes fix on mine, and he barely shakes his head. “But no. She’d rather harm him than help herself. It’s been such a long, sad story.”

  He hands his credit card to the attendant. “Two Scotches, a glass of ice, and a can of ginger ale.”

  “My father’s girlfriend is an addict. She’s pregnant.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  The attendant hands him his drinks.

  I try to blink back tears. “I want to help her. What can I do?”

  He twists off a cap and pours the whiskey into his glass. “Have her arrested and get the court to put her into a lockdown facility until her baby is born. Otherwise, she’ll kill it or damage its brain for life.” He pops the tab on the can.

  A chill moves up my neck. “I thought if I was there, if I cared about her, she’d . . .”

  “What does she use?” He pours in ginger ale.

  I stare at the bubbles rising to the cup’s rim. “I don’t know. She smoked pot recently.”

  “Does your father give her money? Or use drugs?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Does he drink? Like me?” He sucks the amber liquid into his mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’ll drink. Otherwise, meth is cheap and easy to get. Also, heroin or fentanyl.”

  “What do I do?”

  He puts his cup onto the table. “Stay strong and don’t blame yourself. You can’t control her.” />
  “But my sister!” I grip the sides of my table as I try to find any hope in his face.

  He takes a breath and purses his lips. “I hate to be so cruel, but chances are you’ll never see your sister. And if you do, your heart will be broken every day seeing what her mother did to her.”

  A heaviness descends my chest into my stomach.

  “I’m sorry, Laney. In another universe, I chose to keep my cookies and not start a conversation. But maybe it’s better you’re not so naive when you see Gibbs.”

  He makes another drink and downs it.

  “I won’t bother you anymore. I need to sleep.” He finds an inflatable pillow near his feet and puts it between his head and the window.

  Surely Gibbs’ situation isn’t as hopeless as Lloyd described. His daughter just died. He’s bitter and burned out. Gibbs will be happy to see me. She said she feels good now. She cleaned the house. She wouldn’t want to hurt her baby—my sister. I can’t believe she would.

  But she has—four different times. She took drinks from Dad after knowing she was pregnant. I’m sure she drank and used drugs during the weeks before her pregnancy test. She smoked pot two days ago and worked in a bar.

  My sister has no chance.

  I close my computer lid and my eyes. Maybe I can sleep.

  Seemingly minutes later, I hear, “Miss, please lift your table.”

  I try to open my eyes. Someone puts my computer into my lap.

  “Hey. Are you awake?” says a voice to my left.

  I stretch my neck and focus. “Yes.”

  The Bird Lady smiles at me. “We’re going to land in a few.”

  “OK.” I sit up. “Thank you.” Lloyd looks out his window. “I hope you’re wrong about Gibbs.”

  He leans back in his seat. “At some point you’ll learn to abandon hope and find something more useful.”

  “Like Scotch and ginger ale?”

  He rubs his face. “That’s one option. Another is to write your own story. Even then you can’t always control the ending. Once you establish your characters and the rules of your fictional world, the events develop themselves. Little choices you made at the beginning come back to haunt you when you want a character to live or die.”

  “Or have a healthy baby.”

  “Or not use when her body craves it more than food or love or sanity.”

  I have to win this argument. I can’t give up. “You can always go back and change your choices in a book.”

  “Yes, you can. Which is why I’d rather write stories than live in reality.”

  “Or you learn to skip sideways and choose the universe you want to live in. I’ve done it.”

  “What?”

  “Skipped. I’ve almost died at least once but skipped back to the previous world before I made the wrong choice.”

  The skin between his eyebrows crumples. “Really.”

  “Yes. If I can do it, Gibbs can, too. Every time she chooses a drug, another Gibbs doesn’t. I’ll help her imagine that world until she’s there. We’ll skip together.” I try to believe that’s the most logical thing I’ve ever said.

  Lloyd squints his eyes at me, mouth open. “Hope is for the young.”

  “Hope is nothing without action. I’ve got to try. Otherwise, I’ll get drunk and depress teenage girls.”

  The plane bounces hard onto the runway then brakes, lurching us forward in our seats for several seconds until the pressure releases abruptly, and the plane merely rolls.

  “Welcome to SeaTac International Airport. Please keep your seatbelts on until we arrive at our gate.”

  After ten minutes I walk down the aisle and into a cool jetway before reaching the terminal. I find the Departures screen and see that I have to get to N Terminal for my next flight, which will start boarding in about thirty minutes.

  “Laney.”

  I turn and see Lloyd. He holds out a business card. “I’m sorry I was such a shit. If anyone can help Gibbs, it’s you. Please take this. When you finish your book, I’d like to read it. Maybe I can help you someday.”

  I take his card. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss. And thanks for being honest. It made me realize what I need to do.”

  “And that is?”

  “Never give up. When you think you have to, remember that another version of you won’t. No matter how hard it gets, there’s always some part of you who can fight a little longer.”

  He nods. “Write that down before you forget it.” He walks slowly toward the Baggage Claim arrows.

  I hurry downstairs to catch the train. After another ten minutes, I’m riding the escalator and moving toward my gate.

  The line is short at Starbucks, but I need to sleep on this next flight. I find a seat and unlock my phone. Gibbs has sent photos of my room, cleaned and decorated with a new blanket for the bed and pictures on the walls. Dad says he’ll be waiting for me at the Fairbanks airport. Gibbs will have some food ready when we get home.

  I’ve decided I’m going to tell him about Gibbs’ pregnancy during our drive from the airport. We need to work together to save his daughter and my sister.

  We can’t force Gibbs to recover, but we can choose to support her until she does. Giving up on her insures her failure. Keeping strong for her at least gives her a chance.

  20

  I have an aisle seat on this flight next to an older couple with two pet carriers under their seats. A flight attendant walks toward me. The man raises his hand. She stops at our row and hands him several square tickets.

  “One, two, three, four. All here. Thanks,” says the man.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “We have four pets in cargo. Three dogs and a cat,” says the woman proudly.

  “Plus two under your seats?” I smile.

  “It’s ridiculous, I know,” says the woman. “But we can’t leave them at home for a month. They all sleep with us.”

  “Six of them?”

  “The kittens are new. One’s for our daughter. So, just five.”

  “I’ve never had a pet. Mom claims she’s allergic to dogs and cats.”

  “These cats are hypoallergenic.”

  “Really? My dad has a cat, or maybe it belongs to his girlfriend. I saw it in one of the pictures he sent to me.”

  “Does he live in Fairbanks?”

  “No, some town south of there. Near a base of some kind. Don’t know the name.”

  “Clear. Or could be Eilson. We live in Nenana about twenty miles north of Clear. Is he picking you up tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s supposed to be snowing. That’s a hard drive to go both ways in this weather.”

  “He’ll be fine,” says the man with a little aggravation in his voice. “Just like we’ll be fine. I want to get home tonight.”

  The woman leans toward me. “I’d rather stay in town and drive tomorrow when it’s light. But he’s stubborn.”

  “Not stubborn. Just homesick,” says the man.

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  I try to sleep after takeoff, but I soon hear a long, plaintive meow. Then another.

  “Who’s that?” asks the woman.

  “Conan, I think,” answers the man.

  Another long meow.

  “Maybe you should put the carrier in your lap,” says the woman.

  He bends over with a grunt and pulls the carrier out from under the seat in front of him. I see a cute gray and white face pushing against the fabric screen. The man partially unzips the top.

  Her eyes dart toward the aisle. “You can’t let him out, Steven.”

  “I don’t intend to. Just want to pet him. It’s a stupid rule anyway.”

  “How old is he?” I ask.

  “Thirteen weeks,” says Steven.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “His sister is actually cuter,” says the woman. “But she’s being quiet, so I don’t want to disturb her.”

  A few minutes later, my eyelids crash against my cheeks, and I’m ou
t. Several hours later, I hear a loud ding and someone say, “Prepare the cabin for landing.”

  I open my eyes to bright lights and flight attendants directing passengers to lift their trays and seatbacks. Steven and his wife look out the window.

  “I see lights,” says Steven.

  A few minutes later, I see snow racing past the windows. Then we land on a white runway.

  “Welcome to Fairbanks where the local time is 11:40.”

  I pull out my phone and send a text to Dad. I just landed! I’m so excited!

  I’m near the back of the plane and have to wait forever for the line to start moving. I have to pee really bad. I grab my coat and carry-on and stand in the aisle, trying not to squirm too noticeably. Finally, I’m able to move. The cold bites my skin as I exit the plane and move into the jetway. Definitely a colder walk here than in Seattle.

  After a quick trip to the restroom, I almost run down the stairs toward baggage claim. I push open the glass door into the lobby area, ready to scream, expecting to see Dad right there.

  But he’s not.

  I think maybe I came down the wrong stairs, but everyone from the plane has gathered around the carousel in front of me. I turn around and move toward some seats in a row behind me, but Dad isn’t there. I check my phone. No messages.

  I text Dad again. Where are you? I’m at the carousel. I wait a couple of minutes for a reply. Nothing.

  I text Gibbs. Where’s Dad? I’m at the airport.

  Gibbs replies. He should be there. It’s snowing, so maybe the drive is taking him longer than expected. I’m sure he’ll be there soon.

  Bags are rotating around the carousel, so I’d better find mine. I find a gap in the crowd and wait until I see my black hard shell with national park stickers. It weighs 52 pounds, but the agent let me go because I told her about seeing my dad in Alaska. I roll it away from the crowd and see Steven dragging a large dog crate with one hand while trying to control a big golden retriever in the other. His bald head is flushed. Overweight and clearly struggling with both tasks, he drops the crate and bends over, hands on knees. The dog licks his face until Steven laughs and hugs him. The dog leads him out of the terminal, looking for relief.